The Wolf Pack
by Gaiden
Summary: Are k'Treva the only ones who are claiming the right to purify the Pelgiris? What happens when the roles are reversed.
1. In the beginning...

Disclaimer: Don't own it, don't make money off of it, don't mean to offend anyone's sensibilities. Please God, don't sue.

Thanks: MOM, I love you! Stelmarta, awesome beta! Miss Sharp, for her 'sharpness'

The Mage Storms

Once upon a time, a long time ago, there was a land called Velgarth. Many great mages made their livelihood playing with the natural magic of the planet's interior. But there was the sundering, Urtho and Ma'ar could not come to terms and unleashed a magical holocaust the likes of which no one had ever seen. Events do not exist in a vacuum, and the repercussions of the original mage storms vibrated back a hundred-fold centuries later. Only the quick thinking of the Heralds of the Kingdom of Valdemar and the enigmatic Hawkbrothers and Shin'a'in. Both peoples were bound by their Goddess to guard the terrible weapons and purify the land of their taint.

Or mostly. Not all were prepared for the violent upheaval of the world as they knew it. Some, especially traders on long hauls, didn't even know of the havoc that magic was soon to wreak on their lives. Whole circles of land, areas of desert, ocean, grassland, and forest were uprooted and transplanted thousand of miles away.  One land, hardest hit for their unpreparedness, was the Kingdom of Cymraig.  It was a twin land bound by high mountains on either side and heavily dependent on the trade of long haul caravans that traveled up into the civilized world and not too 'in' with the magical news. 

"Bring th' bloody buggers tha' way!" The caravan leader was a relatively short man, black haired, with ice blue eyes. 

"They ought comin' Dafyd, patience."

" Th' hell with patience.  Th' be a storm a'brewin an' we needs get th' hosses under cover" 

"Th' storm be comin' whether we gets under cover or no.  Let's make sure the babes is safe aforehand."

"Gwnfyr, there be no way t' get th' wagon up here!"

"Then track back and stay in th' hills, afore we get blown off this place." 

"Bloody git! Move ye're arses! We needs go back ye buggers, not up!"

In the wagon, the only wagon of the train, swayed the most valuable cargo of the caravan: the children. Twelve younglings, ranging in age from as-yet-unborn to nearly ten. One mother,  Mwynwen, heavily pregnant, sat in with the young ones and calmed their terror of the storm. Lynwen, one of the camp dogs, helped her. Lynwen's mate, the caravan lead dog, Ceinfryn, was outside in the storm, trying to herd the wagon beasts. She and her pups were all scared stiff. She was the nominal babysitter of the children, both four and two footed.  Both 'litters' of children were scared out of their minds and both trusted her absolutely to save them from the storm.  The rest of the wagon was home to the traveling carpentry and blacksmithing shops that were necessary for the maintenance of the caravan.  Tools rattled, wooden boards creaked, and lightening flashed as the storm grew in intensity. 

Suddenly there was a jolt that shook Lynwen to her bones.  The wagon, and all of its contents, seemed to lift and fall. It shifted and flew about until a dead thud stopped its downward free fall. Slowly Lynwen and Mwynwen went to the opening, canvas flapping in the residual wind.  The children, eerily, had stopped crying.  They were looking at Mwynwen and Lynwen expectantly.  Slowly, as if the wagon itself might fly apart if they moved, they pushed the flapping canvas aside.  

They saw trees, were lost in trees.  They towered higher than the tallest building either had ever seen.  Wide enough for a dozen men to wrap arms around and still have room. Bigger than any house they'd ever seen.  One of the trees, damaged in the blast of the magic, had a hole burned into the dead center, halfway through the trunk.  It was larger than the house Mwynwen owned back in her homeland. Big enough, she speculated for her to fit the wagon and it's contents. Making a rush decision, Mwynwen grabbed the now splintered tracings to which the horses had been hitched. She and Lynwen , who now seemed larger than any dog she'd ever seen, started to drag the wagon towards the safety of the tree. Rain thundered out of the sky, barely visible through the massive trees. They reached the safety of the tree moments before the sky really opened up and let loose a hail of magical Levin bolts, mage lightening, and fiery mage balls. Safe, for the moment, Mwynwen turned her attention back to the children. They were her responsibility now, far from anything she recognized as familiar. Mwynwen had no clue where they were or how they'd got there, all she knew was that nothing would ever be the same. 

Shaman 

More than a century had passed since the mage storms.  The Tale'dray'as, Shin'a'in, and Kaled'a'in went back to the ordained roles the Goddess assigned them: To protect, preserve, and heal. One, Nighthorse shena Tale'sedrin k'Treva, was the product of the times: the mingling of Shin'a'in and Tale'dray'as. His mother was a shaman of the Tale'sedrin, his father a k'Treva scout on the border of the Plains and the Pelgir. He had grown in the dichotomy of grassland and forest not quite one, yet not yet the other. It was a unique existence and one he enjoyed to the fullest. It was about to be shattered. 

"Moving! The entire Vale! Now?" He reclined on a pile of cushions in his mother's tent, the home of half his childhood. Visiting, for his scouting territory was a furlong to the north.  

"It is time, all that can be done for this area has been done, and there are other lands, to the north and west, that need these attentions" She sat, her limber posture belying her mage talent, and age, that the gray streaked hair was evidence of.   

"Surely we are not leaving yet, what of the taint of the Storms? Of the changecreatures and the…" he was interrupted. 

"You are leaving, Wingbrother. The council will be sending out word that k'Treva is Seeking a new vale before the sun sets tomorrow. You must accept it." She folded her hands, immovable. 

"But I… I'll miss the Plains and the Clan. What of them?" He paced the length of the tent, frustration lacing through his voice.  

"You must choose, my son, the Goddess waits on no man." She was serene, to an extent only a shaman could be. 

He sat in a heap on the rugs in the tent and in his best 'little child on the brink of a temper tantrum' voice, whined   "Mother! I don't want to go!" 

"That's mature." She sat beside him, taking his head in her lap as she used to when he was young. She ran her hands through his hair, black as was hereditary among Shin'a'in but heavily braided and beaded, as was custom among Tale'dray'as. She stoked his head, gently, soothing away his anxiety.  

"I knew this day was coming, Mother, the moment of truth; am I Tale'dray'as or am I Shin'a'in?" His green eyes looked up, legacy of his many-time great-grandmother, into his mother's twin emerald orbs.    

"Must you be one or the other?" Irritating logic, shamanic logic.  

He stuck his tongue out, and then grinned ruefully at his childishness with his mother's irrefutable conclusion. Must he choose? The question had haunted him for most of his almost-yet-not-quite thirty years. "I chose this path didn't I?" 

"And having chosen, now you must walk it. The Goddess does not set impossible goals, only the difficult ones." She smiled warmly, " or do you plan to stick your tongue out at Her as well?"

"Would it help?" He saw his mother's look, "I suppose not. I will miss the Plains, and you, Mother."

"And I you, my son." She stroked his hair a minute longer. "Out with you now, the council will want you back in the Vale. I can hardly argue with that."

"Yes, Mother."

   http://www.red4.co.uk/welsh/dictionary/e2w/dictionary.htm

http://www.geocities.com/tamalyn_2001/welshbabynames.html

Mopani

Mopani was the alpha male of the pack.  He earned this position over years of dedication and no little strength of his own and his mate, Glynis, who was now in the den with cubs.  He lived with the human Llawela, in the tree house nearest the clearing. It was an honor to live near the magic circle. Even if it made his fur stand on edge sometimes.  Especially when Llawela was casting in the magic circle. It made his head itch.   

 Llawela was the alpha female of the pack, a two-foot, but she had no cubs.  They'd been raised together as pups, from the same litter.  As a wolf-pup he'd grown into his feet a lot faster than she, a man-pup, had.  It had taken almost sixteen years for her to reach her full growth and Mopani was grateful she had.  Llawela had grown into her feet quite well, once she'd had the chance.  There wasn't a faster or stronger two-foot runner in the pack.  He'd taught her the secret of using the blue lines in the earth to help her stamina.  She'd been a gangly child, one of the direct decedents of the Wolf-woman Mwynwen, and followed the same path of magic.  Her mother and her mother's mother both went pure white before they reached their twentieth summer.  Llawela was on her way to a full gray, even if her fur yielded to change as stubbornly as she herself did. Mopani was a full white too, it had happened soon after he showed her the secret of the power lines.  He remembered that day well, she'd been near sixteen summers when it happened. 

"Mopani!" She'd shouted by way of greeting, he jumped up and placed his paws on her shoulders and licked her face. They'd danced a little, him balanced on his hind legs, before falling into the nearest tree. He'd woven between her legs and curveted, an invitation to run. They'd run together, through the forest, dodging trees and bushes, until she had, laughingly, grabbed his tail and pulled them both down. Llawela'd pulled his head onto her lap and scratched behind his ears, sending him into spasms of ecstasy. 

When she'd pulled on his ears, his thoughts, and hers, merged. Neither was alarmed. When they ran, especially at night, Mopani let his human see through his eyes. She saw the blue lines of magic that illuminated the night life of the forest.  Everything had its own blue-glow. Llawela was different, she had a green-gold glow that outshone anyone Mopani'd seen. He reached out to the blue line underneath his feet and pulled the silken power into himself to replenish his energy. 

Suddenly he'd felt a surge of power. More energy than he ever safely handled before surged through his Sight. He felt the drain flow into him and out… into Llawela. Her green-gold glow turned bright blue as she had pulled more and more energy from the ground into her power well. They linked then, deeper than before, and he felt the bright, laughing joy. She'd earned her name at that moment, the sky, previously clear and bright darkened, and lightening flowed from the ground to the sky in continuous bolts, through her body. She'd called the lightening, kept calling it and he could feel the wild joy that she experienced as she played with the lightening like a cub played with an old bone. She'd played until the line under his feet had emptied, then slumped down, exhausted from the effort of controlling the lightening. Hence the name, Llawela, meaning lightening in the human language. By the wolf tongue, she was simply the alpha.  

Over the years she'd gained more control of the power, now that she was nearly twice again the age when she'd found the first line she'd almost mastered them, and earned the title alpha from the virtue that she could, and almost had, fried a rival.  Mopani was her alpha male, and together they ran the pack.  It worked well, the two-foots respected her hunting and running, and the wolves respected Mopani's size and endless endurance.  In the early days of her dominance, she'd gone out hunting and fighting almost every day.  She was no longer that young, instead she now concentrated on the blue lines of magic that ran through the forest.  Some of them ran red with virulent acidic power that burned at her mind.  Mopani helped her; they'd found together that if she pushed the green-gold power from her center into the angry-red power of the line, it slowly faded into a deep blue-green.  Where the blue green lines flowed good plants and healthy animals flourished.  These were good hunting places.  The magic could be pulled to a new place now, and she slowly concentrated on moving the blue-green lines into a web. They collected into little lakes or pools of power.  She found that if she pulled on the center of a web, the power there was blindingly strong. 

It was a slow process and taken many years of trial and error to perfect the purification of the hunting lands.  In many ways, it would have been easier to dig up the land and purify it by hand, than it was to use the powers to drag it out and clean it.  Another side effect, discovered once when a poison-thorn bush had injured a friend, was the ability to knit together wounds leaving no more than a slight scar in the wake.  She had been angry, dangerously so, and pulled on the power of the lines to hurl lightening in her rage.  Mopani had to jump on her to prevent her from releasing the power destructively.  He had thought he forced her to 'ground' the power and allow it to dissipate harmlessly.  The green-blue core went through Llawela and into her friend, Gynefyur.  He had seen, with the outer-Sight, the red-angry poison of the bush recede and the blue-green of the power replace it.  Ever since that day, no one in the pack had died of an illness or sudden trauma when Llawela was nearby.   

She was the alpha; he followed her lead as he followed no other. All of the pack would jump at her orders and fight at her behest.  They had fought off together enemies that would have decimated other packs.  She cast lightening and healed wounds, the pack hunted and the two-feet's cared for the four-foot brothers.  It was the Law of the Pack, inviolable, irrefutable, and unshakable.                                    


	2. K'Treva, we have a problem.

Disclaimer: Don't own it, don't make money off of it, and don't mean to offend anyone's sensibilities.  Please God, don't sue.

Thanks: MOM, I love you!  Stelmarta, awesome beta!  Miss Sharp, for her 'sharpness'

Credit where credit is due: http://www.red4.co.uk/welsh/dictionary/e2w/dictionary.htm http://www.geocities.com/tamalyn_2001/welshbabynames.html

Nighthorse

He rode back to the Vale slowly.  It was his home, true, but he hadn't anticipated leaving the territory near the Plains in his lifetime.  Nighthorse was part of the long-range reconnaissance patrol that spent most of their time going from village to village in the k'Treva held territory making sure that everything there was going smoothly.  For the past few months everything had gone smoothly, but to pull out entirely?  It was a big step, and one to which he was not anticipating with pleasure.  He reached the edge of his patrol zone, just as the scout representative of k'Treva to the council was searching for him.

"Wind to thy wings, clansib!  I was just coming out in search of you," a voice hailed from the treetops. 

"Fair skies, Stormsong, I am here, as you see."  He spotted her, hanging from one of the Pelgir's massive towering trees. They didn't call her Stormsong for nothing.  Her temper, though short-lived was as legendary as her sweetness. 

"There's a full scout's meeting tonight near the Council tree."  She lounged gracefully on a tree limb a few yards ahead of him and several meters up.

"So then it's true, we are leaving."  He shifted uncomfortably in his saddle as he passed below her position. 

She laughed, throwing back a head of pure gold hair.  Of all the scouts she was the most vain of her hair it was a new colour almost every week.  "And they say news travels slowly across the plains.  We are packing as we speak."  She hopped down, with the fearlessness and grace that only a Tale'dray'as scout could manage.

"Are you sure this is the right thing to do?"  He stopped, waiting for her to catch up with him. 

"Worried are you, that you'll miss the Plains?  We'll be here for another moon or so.  But, yes it's high time we moved on with the Vale."  She smiled brilliantly, " Things have been so slow these past moons, surely you've seen to that."

"Slow doesn't mean that all problems have been solved."  She was as graceful as a wyrsa pack and twice as deadly. Nighthorse had no desire to provoke her by questioning the judgment of this decision.

"If we waited until all the problems were solved we'd never get on with the job the Goddess had set for us."  She pulled herself up onto the saddle behind him, without asking,  "The people here can handle that which the Pelagiris throws at them.  No changecreatures, no wild nodes, no colddrakes, no wyrsa.  We've done our duty Wingbrother, that is all we can do."  She reached over to pet the nose of his battlesteed, Tarma.  "We do what we can, no more.  There are other lands and peoples that need k'Treva more than here." 

He shifted, letting her get a better grip around his waist, then urged his mount to a canter.  "The elders know best, I suppose"

"Yes," she squeezed him playfully, "we do.  I know this will be rough for you; you've an attachment to the Plains all of us recognize.  I've an idea, just listen to it: I want you to go on one of the foray missions to scout out a new Vale home.  Just listen to me and think about it.  If you have a hand in choosing the new Vale location, maybe it will help make the move a little less scary."

"I never said I was scared."  His hackles immediately rose at the thought.  She squeezed his ribs again, hard. 

"Men," he felt her toss her hair, " you and your pride.  Everyone who's not a total featherhead should be scared.  Moving is a big step, and we'll be the first Clan to move since before the Storms.  All I'm saying is that if you help to make the choice it will feel less as if the world is being jerked out form under your feet, that's all.  Think about it, Wingbrother.  We all care about you.  We want you to be as comfortable as possible with this; I know it can't be much.  " 

"I'll think about it.  I won't promise anything, but I'll think about it."  His heart warmed with the knowledge that his friends were looking out for him.  This is why he was staying with k'Treva. He nudged his battlesteed to a gallop and listened to Stormsong's slight gasp as she clung on tightly.  He was heading home.         

House Trees

Llawela waited with Mopani near the entrance to his den.  This was the third time she'd waited this wait with him.  He was as nervy as a high-strung cat, but she guessed he was entitled.  It wasn't every day your mate had cubs.  He was pacing around the entrance, snapping at hapless individuals who walked in his path, and finally heaved a great sigh and flopped at her feet to be scratched. 

"Mopani, brawd, aros.  Popeth ydi'r bod o'r gorau. Rydw i'nsicr. Ydi'r bechgyn yn dod?" (Mopani, brother, wait.  Everything is OK.  I'm sure.  Are the boys' coming?) 

He whined and nodded, his ears laid back.  He rolled on his back, a submissive gesture, but he loved a good tummy scratch.  Soon the men, both two and four footed, appeared near the den, carrying a skin full of a clear, slightly intoxicating beverage.  They were grinning, amused at their fearless alpha's nerves.  She let them carry Mopani off to be relieved of his stress and rolled her neck, working out the kinks.  She was a little worried herself, it had been quite a while, and there had been some complications with the last litter.  She couldn't let Mopani see her stress, though; it would only make him worry more.  

"Ydi'r chi o'r gorau?"  (Are you OK?), she called down the burrow.  Wolves were notoriously private about birthing.  The den entrance was as close as anyone could get. 

A snapping whine was as much as she got.  Wearily she extended her Sight into the tree where the den was carved.  Mother and cubs were alive, a good sign, but she was in incredible pain, not surprising.  Llawela rubbed the wood of the tree, affectionately, letting the living being of the wood absorb some of the stress.  Her mother had taught her the trick of 'singing' to the trees.  That's how the dens were created.  She had to ask permission from the tree to widen and enlarge the trunk so a dwelling could be hollowed out from the heartwood inside.  Wolf dens were small, but the two-foot dens required more space.  Even from a Pelgir tree that was a lot to ask.  Most of the trees were receptive, though, that was a good thing.   

A sudden, squalling bark emerged from the den.  She extended her Sight, this time a little more enthusiastically.  One cub had breeched the last barrier, the litter was being born.  She jumped into the air, pumping her fist a little in celebration, and then she remembered her old friend and his nerves.     

"Mopani, eich plentyn ydi'r yma.  Mopani!  Dod cyflym!"  (Mopani, your child is here.  Mopani!  Come quick!) 

He came running, weaving slightly, and barked at the entrance.  He barked and barked and barked.  Then threw back his head and let loose a howl.  She joined him, as did some of the other males.  Eventually the entire pack, all within earshot, joined in the jubilation.  Mopani's cubs were born.  Three little cubs was the final count, two females and a male. 

"Bendigedig!  Ni angen gwneud  rhywbeth.  Cinio, brecwast, bwyd, rhywbeth!" (Wonderful! We need to do something. Dinner, breakfast, food, something!) An enthusiastic well-wisher, grabbed Llawela by the shoulders and shouted.    

"Ni cael paratoi, rhoi fi amser. Fory, efallai, nid heno." (We need to prepare, give me time. Tomorrow, maybe, not tonight.) She extracated herself, and called behind her  "Gwneud nid tra meddw heno. Ni cael bywn dychrynu ar fory." (Do not get very drunk tonight. We have food to scare up tomorrow.)

"O'r gorau! Ni bod yna! (Ok! We'll be there!) They called cheerfully, already making their way to the clearing where the impromptu party had started.   

 Llwaela chuckled; half the pack would be clutching aching heads come the morning, but they needed to celebrate. Winter was just over, the snow was fresh thawed, and fresh meat was looming on the horizon. She had duites to attend to, even in the midst of celebration. She made her way, quietly, to the family tree. Etched on the single, flat surface was the names and family relationship of everyone in the pack. She needed to add the three new additions to Mopani's tribe. This tree was the original, first tree that had been hollowed out for habitation. In it were kept the remains of former alpha's, human and wolf, as well as the written history of the pack. 

She walked in; it was cool and dark inside the tree. She could feel remnants of old power, older than she, emanating from the bones. She gave her great-great-grandmother a friendly pat on the skull and felt the power throbbing under her fingers. She sat, with a small knife, and began the painstaking process of carving Mopani's newest additions into the family tree, leaving space for the names. It didn't take too long. 

She leaned back on her haunches and admired her work, then frowned. The old problem, one that would only get worse with time, stared her in the face. The pack had started with fourteen humans. Over the past century breeding had reduced the number of available mates who were not family. She estimated two more generations before it was all over. Inbreeding would then take it's toll and the pack wouldn't last another fifty summers. The wolves could, and had, mate with wild packs on the fringe of their territory, but all of Llewela's scouting had not found a single wild pack of humans for her people to mate with. It was frustrating to be met with a problem no amount of power or planning could fix. 

She shook her head; worrying on this would ruin her day. Mopani's cubs deserved their proper celebration. They deserved to have an aunt who paid attention to them and not the distressing implications of their birth. Things would be better, they had to be. Anything less would be unacceptable.

K'Treva

Nighthorse made his way to the Council tree. He was not quite dreading, but not really looking foreword this meeting. It was a necessary evil. He'd thought on what Stormsong had to say, he acknowledged that she idea had some merit, but having just come back from a long patrol he really didn't want to go back out again unless he absolutely had to. No, hang that, he'd gone out again on less rest into more dangerous territory. He really didn't want to face the issue of k'Treva leaving the territory near the Plains. He stopped for a second, brushing away a trailing vine of some psudo-tropical plant that the Vale supported. 

'Nighthorse' he told himself sternly ' you are leaving.  End of story.  Find some way to deal with it. Go out there with those people and pick a new home.'

His bondbird, Greidawl, swooped down.  He automatically held up his wrist as a perch. Greidawal was a goshawk, red eyed and short-tempered, but today he seemed a little subdued. He hopped to Nighthorse's shoulder and started preening his hair. After taking a moment to compose himself, Nighthorse pushed aside the vines and entered the Council meeting.  

"Wind to thy wings, brother, we are glad to see you come back."

"I'm glad to be back, Fireharp, it's been too long."

"Well, we may just be sending you out again. Stormsong tells me you've volunteered to go with the mage-scouting party in search of a new Vale."

He glared at Stormsong, that was not what he had said, but he realized this was the moment of truth anyway.

"Yes," he felt tension drain off of his shoulders, "I did." Behind Fireharp he could see Stormsong grinning and giving the 'thumbs-up' at his choice. 

"Good," Nighthorse turned to see one of the oldest mages, and the most powerful, smiling from his seat. "We need a night-scout for the journey. You're the best we have."

"You honour me Riverblade, but I hope, meaning no disrespect, that it is not you that comes on this trip." Riverblade was old enough to be Nighthorse's grandfather, if not older. Surely not a man to take on a rough cross-country journey thought the Pelgir Wilds.  

"No offence is taken, Nighthorse, you are absolutely correct. My youth is not what it once was," he smiled, hair tinkling softly from waist length bells. "We of the Mages have chosen Silverice to go on this journey."

From behind him a woman rose, fully bedecked in fur, feathers, and beads. She had snow-white hair, the hair only an adept could truly grow, flowing past her knees and draped in a fantastical arrangement that seemed to defy gravity. Her costume, for that was the only way to describe it, was an electric blue and lime green confection that made his eyes cross.  He was raised Shin'a'in accustomed to eye blinding attire and he was wowed. Colours like that were not natural. She had the butter soft ankle boots that could only be worn in the Vale, pale skin that had likely never seen real un-shielded sunlight, and the stubborn beak of a nose that had found it's way into the Vale through the Ashkeverons. 

This woman was the mage for a rough ride through unclaimed territory on the Pelgir wilds?  He'd heard of Silverice. The use-name was as accurate as her magery. She was precise, calculating, and cold. She judged mage energy to within a hair of its ability, but had virtually no practical experience outside the heavily shielded Vale environ. His dismay must have shown plainly on his face because as their eyes met, hers chilled to chips of sapphire ice. 

"You think then, Wingsibling, I am unsuitable for this position?"

"I think," he said very carefully "that we have a lot to accomplish in a very short period of time. Can you handle that?"

"I can handle anything" She artistically flared out her sleeves and shook the bells braided in her hair. The ornaments and different toned bells chimed in harmony. It was a stunning effect to be sure, but not a skill needed to survive the Pelgir. He'd be damned if he lugged around a mage wardrobe in unclaimed territory to satisfy the whims of an ornamental peahen.  

He exchanged a wry glance with Stormsong, who shrugged and said wordlessly, 'not my choice'. He sighed, what the devil had he gotten himself into? It was too late to turn back. Sympathetically his bondbird nuzzled his neck, Nighthorse stroked him absently as he analysed the map Fireharp spread over the table. 

"There are three sites: here, there, and over here." He pointed to three different locations on the map. "Now, we prefer this place here. It's near the trade routes we've already got running so we can back onto some support, but far enough that we've still got plenty of land to cleanse. As far as Silverice can sense there are three nodes of uncompromising power and, this is the key, surprising stability. In fact this whole area seems as though a Healing-Adept has taken at least a beginning hand to the area, it's not perfect by far, but a lot less contaminated than some of the surrounding areas. We've contacted k'Vala and k'Sheyna, they've not sent any mage-teams to the area although it seems as though the magic here is much more stable than elsewhere."

"Do you think there's a rogue adept who's claimed the nodes?"

"No," Silverice broke into the conversation. Her voice was surprisingly deep and very well modulated. "No rogue adept would go about purging the wilds in such a remote location. There is power, to be sure, but no people to lord over and no resources to gain. It is nature simply re-asserting herself. We have every right to move on in."

"Is it decided then? Are we to go there?" 

"It would seem," Riverblade said absently "as though it has been decided. To the three nodes we will go."                        


	3. the birds and the bees

1.1.1 The Den  
  
1.1.2  
  
1.1.3 Wolf dens were not built for humans. This was a fact that Llawela was increasingly reminded of as she 'cub-sat' for Mopani. They were fine for the four footed members of society, but were not intended for long-term human habitation. She was not a terribly tall individual, nor was she excessively wide, but her knees were in her face as she lay, flat on her back, cuddling the three cubs on her stomach. They were asleep and she hesitated to move, or breathe too deeply, for fear of waking them and sending them off into squalls of hunger. 'This is an honour' she reminded herself fiercely 'no one else is allowed in the den, except Mopani, you should be grateful that Glynis is being nice enough to let you play with your niece and nephews' One yawned, his (or her) eyes were still closed, they'd open in few more days, and the cub nuzzled further up onto her chest. Each was a small fuzzy ball of approximately one river stone in weight. Three river stones, balanced precariously on the abdomen, were more than enough for one sensible individual. She waited, expectantly, for Mopani to return. He and Glynis had gone out hunting, looking for more food to feed the growing cubs. They did little more than eat and sleep and poop, the time was yet to come where they'd run and play. By the end of the summer they would be big enough to hunt and fight with the rest of the pack, but for now they were helpless, fuzzy-warm and sleepy, not trained hunting dogs.  
  
1.1.4  
  
1.1.5 Maternal strings tugged at Llawela's heart, this wasn't the first time she regretted not having cubs of her own, but she'd made a decision to compete for the position of Alpha and pursue her mission of cleaning up the magic around the dens. It wasn't fair; Mopani had three litters of cubs, of which four children remained and he still got to be Alpha. He wasn't the one who did all the work, though; all he had to do was get drunk at the party afterwards. She enjoyed a private moment of pride at her old friend's expense; the females of the species always put up with more than the males and they had the care of the cubs too. Another cub shifted up, curling his fluffy tail around her neck They were warm little pups. She brought her hand up to stroke his (or her) fur. Chuckling slightly as  
  
1.1.6 the cub tuned his seeking mouth to suckle at her finger  
  
1.1.7  
  
1.1.8 "Chi edrych mewn yr'cam lle, plentyn. Mam y'dir ni dyma," (You look at thewrong place, child. Mother is not here.) The gently extricated her finger from his mouth, he whined slightly but nuzzled her neck warmly.  
  
1.1.9  
  
1.1.10 She heard scratching at the den opening and a short bark. Mopani was home and he brought Glynis with him. Now came the most delicate manoeuvre, getting Glynis into the den and Llawela out of the den without disturbing the cubs. Llawela scooted over, delicately dumping the cubs [use 'them' here] onto their mothers lap and wiggled out, headfirst. She plopped at the paws of Mopani, who crawled in after her with the night's dinner for Glynis stored in his stomach  
  
1.1.11  
  
1.1.12 She shook the den's wood dust out from her clothing while she waited for Mopani to finish his fatherly mission. She wore nothing special, a leather jerkin, sleeveless and cut short to bare her stomach to the sun, and leather breeches ending at the knee. Her shins were sun browned and scratched; in the winter she wore longer leggings and boots to protect against the cold. She usually went bare-foot, unless she knew she'd be hunting and then wore soft shoes that only came up to the ankles. One of the pack, his name was Llewen, hand-made each pair for also made little booties for the wolves in the winter. The soft leather shoes were spiked at the toe and heel to help her run faster and climb higher, just like a wolf's paws. She had a wide belt, as was customary, with several little pouches hanging from it. The belt also served as a back support if she needed to lift things. Fastened to the belt was a case for her spears, which also fastened at the top of the collar of her jerkin. Llawela fished out some shoes from a pack on her waist and jumped around, first on one foot then on the other while lacing them. Mopani wiggled back out of the den, slightly squished from the squeeze, and joined Llawela as she trotted to the weapon smith. They were not hunting today, that was the responsibility of the younger members of the pack, but having a few weapons while wandering the woods had saved lives countlesstimes. Llawela made it mandatory for anyone leaving the safety of the dens.  
  
1.1.13  
  
1.1.14 The weapons smith was a cheerful woman. She'd inherited the job from her mate when he had accidentally exploded the bellows, burning himself terribly in the process. Thankfully Llawela had gotten word before the burns were fatal. He was a little crispy around the edges, but alive. His mate had taken over the job of glass blowing and weapons-melting soon after.  
  
1.1.15  
  
1.1.16 "Prynhawn da. Shwd ych chi?" The smith greeted her with a smile. Llawela smiled back, they'd been friends long before she'd reached alpha. Aderyn was younger, though, not quite five and twenty summers.  
  
1.1.17  
  
1.1.18 "Lawn, diolch. A chi?" Llawela returned the greeting with one of her own. Aderyn shrugged, she was always doing well, and motioned to her latest projects.  
  
1.1.19  
  
1.1.20 "Edrych da" Llawela said approvingly. Her friend really turned out some impressive work. Aderyn blushed a little at the compliment. She sometimes forgot that the most valuable positions were those of the craftspeople and not the hunters.  
  
1.1.21  
  
1.1.22 "Diolch yn fawr" Aderyn thanked her gracefully. Llawela picked up some of the new spearheads and examined them closely. They were glass, seemingly fragile, but incredibly sharp. Aderyn carefully shaped the spearheads, about a finger length long and as wide as her two thumbs together. If they shattered on the way into the prey, well they shattered. The hunters fished out the pieces and Aderyn melted them back into usable shapes. She created drinking cups, plates, and cooking vessels. All manner of useful things. If they broke, then they broke; Aderyn picked up the pieces and melted them back together. It was a very efficient system and only required the glass oven and some sand from the river.  
  
1.1.23  
  
1.1.24 "Sut faint?"  
  
1.1.25  
  
1.1.26 Aderyn considered the question, "Pedwar neu pimp, nid gormod"  
  
1.1.27 Llawela nodded and selected only four of the smaller spearheads. There were other hunters that needed the bigger weapons. "Diolch yn fawr" She thanked Aderyn and rose, Mopani followed. She grabbed her spear sticks out of their case along her back and sat on a rock to haft the spearheads onto the shaft. It didn't take long; all she needed to do was tie the spearhead onto the tip with some sinew. The spear tips were already cut to accept the head. The shafts went back into the short case on her back. Mopani waited patiently, the process fascinated him but as a dog he couldn't use the spears. She picked up a short buckler, a small shield, that was of tough wood and hide. No use in not being prepared. The shield could be used for a variety of different purposes not the least of which was personal protection.  
  
1.1.28  
  
1.1.29 She and Mopani had a mission. They were scouting the far south side of the pack territory. She'd gotten the feeling that someone was trying to reach the far power lines of the territory. They were locked to her personal power, not open to anyone else. She, Mopani, and three of the other wolves and two human partners were going out to investigate.  
  
1.1.30  
  
1.1.31 Llawela reached the clearing. It was the only clearing in the entire forest, the original place where the change-circle appeared. One of the big trees was completely missing, replaced with a circle of gray rock. The others were waiting, ready to investigate along with their alphas. They didn't talk to each other just started running, the tireless tracking lope of a wolf pack on the chase.  
  
1.1.32  
  
1.1.33 On the Trail  
  
1.1.34  
  
1.1.35 Nighthorse was a night scout. It was his responsibility to take the night shifts and protect the camp in the dark. He was also placed in the leadership role of senior for all the scouts in the group. This was a position that was not very conducive to sleep of any kind. Somebody somewhere having some kind of problem constantly awakened him, day and night. It was unpleasant to say the least. They were on the road sixteen to seventeen hours a day, hard rough riding, and on top of all that, he was responsible for night scouting.  
  
1.1.36  
  
1.1.37 Silverice's idea of travel involved waking up at noon, or thereabouts, eating heartily, travelling for approximately five or six hours in the bright daylight, and settling down to make camp at about seven in the evening and sleeping for a good twelve or thirteen hours in an outlandishly ornate tent. She was, therefore, in an incredibly rude state of shock.  
  
1.1.38  
  
1.1.39 Unfortunately for Nighthorse, he was the one who bore the brunt of her displeasure.  
  
1.1.40 When she came out of her tent at dawn with the indomitable nose slicing the air between them, he braced himself another lecture on how mage energies sapped strength and quiet rest was the only cure, preferably twelve to fourteen hours of it. Instead she genuinely looked as though something had kept her up all night long. Not only was her hair in an alarming state of disarray, but also she was dressed in the 'common' articles of scout  
  
1.1.41 clothing and not some outlandish mage getup.  
  
1.1.42  
  
1.1.43 "Wingbrother, how close are we to the edge of the new border?" she more or less collapsed on the ground beside him. Her silver hair, braided back into a sensible rope, touched the ground as she sat.  
  
1.1.44  
  
1.1.45 "Two, three days. No more, why?" Even though they didn't get along well he was concerned, such drastic change in behaviour was not a good sign. There were no beads on her tunic, no bells in her hair, and she was not only wearing a wicked-looking knife she seemed prepared to use it.  
  
1.1.46  
  
1.1.47 "I tried to reach into the mage energies that are supposedly dormant in the new territories. They're not dormant, shayna, someone out there has not only tapped them, she's locked the lines to her use only." Silverice looked deeply troubled, "There's no reason for a rogue mage to be here, this is nothing but wild forest, and there are no inhabitants and no resources that kind of mage would want."  
  
1.1.48  
  
1.1.49 "What does that mean? Are you sure it's a 'she'?" Ice trickled down his spine, although not a mage himself he was k'Treva, he knew the dangers of rogue adepts.  
  
1.1.50  
  
1.1.51 "To your second question, yes, I'm sure. The magic is laced with female overtones. The signature is unmistakable. To the first, well, what it means is either that we have a rogue mage over here trying to somehow carve a territory out of the Pelgiris knowing full well that we of Tayledras have claim to this land, or some mage elsewhere has found a way to tap energy and lock it from a distance. I speak of thousands of furlongs, here Wingbrother, not just a day or so's travel. A third possibility is that this is residual, from before the storms, and was never dissipated when the onslaught hit."  
  
1.1.52  
  
1.1.53 "Could that happen? Could a rogue adept tap these lines?" Terror filled him. If it could be done from far away, what was there to stop a rogue adept from tapping a Heartstone or Tayledras node?  
  
1.1.54  
  
1.1.55 "Not according to our knowledge… but from another? I don't know," She shifted uncomfortably. "I would suggest entering that territory with extreme caution. We must travel only at night, in silence. My Mordeyrn says he will fly ahead to scout, along with the other birds. I can use my Mage- sight to see through his eyes. Whoever this rogue is, we will find her."  
  
1.1.56  
  
1.1.57 "You plan on going in there? Are you insane! We're heading back to k'Treva to get some real reinforcements and tell the other clans about this."  
  
1.1.58  
  
1.1.59 He moved to stand up; she caught his arm and jerked him back down with some real force. Surprised he looked at her, almost shocked that this Vale-fed magelet was challenging his decisions.  
  
1.1.60  
  
1.1.61 "Tell them what? We have found a set of ley-lines that have been secured to another. That does not tell us whom has set these lines, what she is doing here, or even if she is here at all. It may well be that this is just a residual trace and I can break the locking once we've reached the main node."  
  
1.1.62  
  
1.1.63 She got that stubborn, mulish look, nose cleaving the like a beak, "We will investigate this Wingsibling, why else would I wear this unflattering getup? Before last night there was no reason to be cautious. There is reason now. I will not return to k'Treva empty-handed."  
  
1.1.64  
  
1.1.65 "That is not your decision to make. I am leader of these scouts and we are going home." There was no way he planned on putting his scouts in dangerfrom a rogue adept in the Pelgiris.  
  
1.1.66  
  
1.1.67 "I am leader of these mages and we are staying. Go home if you wish, wingbrother, just be prepared to explain why we are not with you." She smiled a smug, arrogant smile. She had his butt over a barrel and she knew it.  
  
1.1.68  
  
1.1.69 "You will do that?" he growled.  
  
1.1.70  
  
1.1.71 "Only if I must," she was serious, damn her.  
  
1.1.72  
  
1.1.73 "Bitch," his insult was without heat, more of an acknowledgement of her correctness.  
  
1.1.74  
  
1.1.75 "Occasionally," she said with a smile.  
  
1.1.76  
  
1.1.77 "Fine," he stood up angrily, still frustrated at being out-gunned. "We stay. On your head it be." 


End file.
